Incomplete
by Macx
Summary: sequel to Modification. Crowley snarled. Stop trying to right the wrong, angel. It's not working. Not for me! Not any more! I'm not me any more! MxM


**Incomplete**  
Sequel to Modification  
by Macx

Long, gentle but firm strokes. Fingers carded into the black feathers, parted them carefully, cleaned them, pulled out the dead ones. It was a soothing, tender motion, lulling him into sleep, making him relax, close his eyes, forget about the world. There were only those hands he trusted, the only one he trusted to turn his back to, and the strong presence of his angel behind him, around him, with him.

Crowley straddled the chair, head on his folded arms, eyes closed, enjoying the grooming. His feathers rustled as Aziraphale went through them, and he sighed softly.

It was nice.

Really, really nice.

A breath whispered over his exposed neck and playful fingers stroked the sensitive skin between his wings. He arched into the caress like a huge cat and smiled a little to himself.

His angel was very, very playful sometimes. And sexy. And experimental. And no longer so utterly righteous and divine and mild-mannered.

The thought sobered him a little. Flashes of memory returned, of claws at the end of those well-manicured fingers. Of the un-angelic silver eyes, the painfully metallic tang to his aura.

Aziraphale had changed.

Crowley had changed.

The change was one reason why he immediately closed his eyes when opening his wings.

They were no longer his wings.

"Done," Aziraphale whispered, planting a kiss onto his neck. Goose bumps followed the contact and Crowley suppressed a groan. "Tea?" the angel offered.

He just nodded as he rose from the chair, shaking out his wings. They felt wonderful, healthy, vital but they weren't really his any more, right?

Crowley's eyes strayed to the right one and the sick feeling he had been battling for days now returned. There, gleaming white, the feathers that weren't his stood out against the midnight black. Like racing stripes, Aziraphale had remarked once, amusement in his blue eyes. Running from his carpal joint to the wing tip, the white feathers formed a thin, snowy white line. Sometimes almost silvery. Angelic. Not demonic.

He wasn't a demon any more.

Without thinking, actually without realizing it, Crowley flashed his claws and caught the offensive feathers, pulling hard.

It wasn't the first time.

He had done so before.

They always grew back. Always. Demons couldn't mutilate themselves for life  or death. Their bodies regenerated perfectly into what had been before. In Crowley's case 'before' should have been black feathers, but whatever cosmic joke this was, the feathers stayed white.

Each and every time.

Blood clung to his claws. Blood and white feathers. He flung them aside with disgust and took the next handful, ripping hard. He barely felt the pain.

But he heard the gasp.

"Crowley!"

Aziraphale stood in the door, dressed, without wings, holding two cups of tea. They fell from his hands and shattered on the floor and the two immortal beings looked at one another.

"What are you doing!"

"What does it look like?" he asked sullenly.

Crowley shook his hand to get rid of the feathers, eyeing the bloody wing.

"What are you thinking, Crowley! Those are your wings!"

"They are not. They haven't been for a while now. You think white's my colour, angel? Think again!"

Something flitted over Aziraphale's face and the angel paled. Crowley should have been warned by that, but he wasn't.

"How long?" Aziraphale breathed.

"How long what?"

"Oh, don't play games with me! How long have you been pulling out your feathers?"

He shrugged, wiping his bloody hand on his trousers, then just miracled them clean.

"How long?" Aziraphale insisted.

"Ever since," Crowley replied despondently. "What's it to you?"

The warning signs were getting stronger, but Crowley still didn't see them. Aziraphale's eyes were unnatural by now, hands clenched into fists, lips a thin line.

"You want me to accept my claws, right? While you tear out your feathers? You're mutilating yourself!"

"I'm a demon, Aziraphale!"

"So what?"

"Demons are known for... horrible things!"

"Oh? Oh! You are a demon! That's been your excuse for the last six millennia! Grow up, Crowley! Find another reason! You want me to tear out my claws, is that it? You want me to follow in your footsteps?"

"You're an angel..."

"So what? I'm not allowed to do such a thing? To harm myself? Do you think we're all goodness and warmth and love? News flash! I'm no longer a servant of Him!" Fine tremors ran through the other man and Crowley's inner alarm squeaked a little.

"You haven't Fallen," he argued.

"No, but I could have! I was kicked out. Like you. You got scrapped, Crowley. You're no longer a demon!"

"I'm a demon!" Crowley insisted.

"You are not!"

Black wings snapped open, the white stripes gleaming in the light. A few drops of blood spilled where the feathers had been torn out. "I am! I am evil. I'm a bastard! I served Hell!"

"Yes, you served. Past tense!"

Crowley snarled. "Stop trying to right the wrong, angel. It's not working. Not for me! Not any more! I'm not me any more!"

He grabbed a handful of feathers and pulled. Blood and feathers fell onto the floor.

"I'm a demon and these wings are an abomination!"

Clawed hands curled around his wrist, banging it to the wall. Aziraphale was up close to him, eyes cold, face emotionless. His aura had changed, was no longer warm and loving. It was cold, cutting into the fog of self-loathing, and Crowley gasped a little in shock.

"You want me to believe that everything is all right," Aziraphale said, voice level. It was worse than his yelling. "You told me everything will be fine, that we can handle this. You calmed me, you told me no big deal, that claws are just a little change, that I'm still me. They aren't, Crowley. I killed a human being with them. I tore him apart in my rage. 'Thou shalt not kill'. His words. I lived by them. I am an angel. You want me to believe that this is our future and that it is okay? Well, it isn't. It isn't because you can't accept your own words. You mutilate yourself while you want me to smile and pretend I'm fine with myself, that I took a human life. Well, I'm not, Crowley. I'm dealing, I'm trying to accept what has become of me, and it hurts. Looking at these claws hurts because they have blood on them. Not demonic blood. Human blood..."

He let go of the demon, stepping back. The claws disappeared.

"It hurts to change. And I changed. I'm no longer a servant of Him. It's a deep, deep pain. I was thrown out for what? Love is no sin. You said so. I accepted it. I accepted the changes because you told me it's okay. It's not okay. You see it yourself. It's not okay. As long as you mutilate yourself, it's not okay."

The blue eyes were even colder now. Glacial.

"You, Anthony J. Crowley, are a hypocrite."

"I... I'm a demon," Crowley stammered weakly. "I'm supposed to be"

Aziraphale's expression was unrelenting. "You're as much a demon as I am an angel."

"B-but..."

"If you were a true demon and I was a true angel, we wouldn't be having this conversation, Crowley," Aziraphale stated emotionlessly.

And he turned, walking away. There was nothing else, just the almost silent steps of a retreating angel, and even that was finally gone.

Crowley stared at the empty spot where the angel had been, mouth open in shock, wings quivering.

"Zira?" he whispered.

He could still see the disappointment. The regret, the failure in the angel's eyes, the forlorn hope.

Sinking down the wall, he buried his clawless hands in his hair.

He had taken a room in the most sinfully decadent and luxurious hotel in the whole of London. None of his wishes would be left unanswered, everything would be brought to his room, be it food, drink, service... whatever.

Crowley couldn't care less, though the demon inside him was smiling gleefully at the luxury.

It had been two weeks now since the argument and he hadn't seen Aziraphale in all that time. Not because the angel was evading him, no. He was evading his angel.

Lying on the incredibly large bed, the huge TV running some Pay TV channel, he gazed at the moving pictures without actually seeing them. He was running their last argument around and around in his head, unable to stop himself. He felt sick and lost and alone. He hadn't slept a single night since coming here, which was unusual for him, and he normally just locked the room and shooed away the maids. He changed their memories to having fixed up his room so no one would come and question him.

Then again, eccentric people were known in this hotel. Rich people were always eccentric. By the price he paid per day for this room, he was rich.

Instead of sleeping and indulging in luxury, Crowley was thinking.

About a lot of things.

About the Arrangement.

If we had never agreed upon the Arrangement, would things have been different?

Maybe.

He didn't know.

He had forgotten what it was like to fight against angels. He had taken Aziraphale for granted after the Arrangement. Even before that he had never really fought against the Enemy. They had traded verbal blows, had been in each other's way, but they had never physically harmed each other.

Once.

Yes, once.

In the first few encounters. That Crowley remembered. Burying his claws in the soft white feathers and trying to break the wings. Today today those memories made him sick. He loved his angel's wings, the divine feathers, the softness, the silky feel, and he absolutely delighted in the rare moments of falling asleep in their embrace.

After that terrible time of fighting things had mellowed. It was as if the moment he had truly drawn blood, something had changed in Crowley. And when he had found Aziraphale so badly mutilated by a hell beast a few decades later, their lives had been turned upside down.

Nothing was the same any more.

The Arrangement had made it official.

It had been so easy. He dished out temptation, Aziraphale thwarted him. It made them both look good with their respective superiors. He had never really won or lost a case; just like the angel. His records were clean, he was working well, no one complained, and life was simple.

It had been... was... nice. Comfortable. He had liked it. He had taken refuge in the knowledge that Aziraphale would always be there, with him. Even for him. How often had he gone to the angel to ask for help in a matter that only a celestial being could aide him with? How often had they sat together, talking, about everything, about their work, about their Sides, about the Plan? How often had they got stinking drunk on the couch? How often had he turned his back to the angel, complete in his trust that Aziraphale would never take advantage of a weakness of him?

How much did the angel know about Anthony J. Crowley that not even the best record keeper Below probably knew?

Crowley sighed.

A lot. Aziraphale knew him, knew his fears and joys and weaknesses and strengths. He knew everything. He had never hurt him with that knowledge.

You've taken it all for granted, his mind reminded him.

He had taken his angel for granted and treated him this way. Like a possession. Like something replaceable. Like something obsolete at times. Like a thing

Crowley swallowed. He had never been the one for introspective moments, but that was all he could do right now. Rolling around on the bed, he faced the huge window. Outside the sky was grey, stormy, and the weather forecast had warned of thunderstorms and lots of rain.

It was a mirror of what he felt inside. A lot more than the sunny days before. He had absolutely despised the glorious weather for being so... glorious.

He had lied to his angel. Demons lied. It was in their nature. But Crowley had made a point of not lying to Aziraphale. A little obfuscation was fine, but no outright lie.

Wings rustled into existence and he gazed at the white stripes. The white stripes were the root of all problems. They were his burden and he had been unable to bear it. Shaking fingers touched the pristine colour. Aziraphale's colour. White like his angel's wings. Just a few feathers and they had set off an avalanche of events. Stroking over the feathers, they felt no different. Not at all.  
Normal feathers.

Just a different colour.

No reason to lose it, right?

He was a demon, and he wasn't. He was a fallen angel, but Hell had kicked him out.

Was he a demon? By definition, yes. By affiliation? He didn't know.

Crowley sighed softly and sat up, the wings still out. He walked to the huge window and leaned his forehead against the cool pane.

"Zira," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I don't know who I am."

But he had needed his angel to be who he had always been, an angel. He had needed Aziraphale as Aziraphale, not something changed. He had needed him to cling to the only steady person in his life for six millennia.

He had failed. He had betrayed Aziraphale by being a hypocrite.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against the window.

It had taken Crowley a month to leave the hotel. He felt so bad about what had happened, he actually paid his bills. Walking through the streets of London, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes hidden behind shades. He didn't look either left or right. People evaded him automatically, as did cars and whatever else got in his way.

The Bentley was parked safely at home. He hadn't been there in four weeks. He didn't care.

Crowley wasn't really surprised to find himself in front of Aziraphale's bookshop in the end. He also wasn't very much surprised that the shop was closed. He walked in anyway, the door opening for him and locking behind him.

Dust. It smelled of dust and old books. Paper and wood. Peeling paint and shelves that would need replacing one day.

No angel. No Aziraphale.

Crowley walked through the gloomy shop and into the back room. It looked as deserted as the front. There wasn't a tingle of Aziraphale's presence.

He hadn't been here for a while.

Crowley swallowed.

The demon walked up into the flat above the bookstore. It was silent. Like everything else. A fine sheen of dust covered everything. Aziraphale's residual aura had almost disappeared in here.

He had been gone for weeks.

His angel was gone.

Crowley had scouted all churches, chapels and other holy institutions in London, then widened his search into the greater are of London and finally the whole of England. He knew he was using a lot of energy to go from place to place, but he was a demon with a mission. He needed to find Aziraphale, but the more he searched, the more he became convinced that Aziraphale had left the country altogether.

Sitting in his Bentley in front of All Hallows Barking, he glared at the old building, the representation of Him, of His work.

The radio was on and there was apparently just one station in the whole of London and it was playing stupid love songs. Crowley cursed as the singer told him to 'give a little love and you get it back', muttering about stupid women singers and their soft voices and their teary lyrics.

Great.

Bloody well great!

He had to listen to heartbreak and sorrow, and his soul was weeping with every new songs. Even the radio told him what an ass he was. He didn't need that. He knew that particular news already.

"Enough!" he growled and forcefully turned off the radio.

Why he had listened to it for so long was anyone's guess. The demon got out of the car and approached the church, staying off church grounds nevertheless. He found a bench under a tree and gazed at the small but very much holy building.

Aziraphale was gone.

Because of Him.

Because He had intervened in their new lives after kicking the angel out. He had given them the job that had changed their lives.  
Crowley needed a scapegoat and that was Him. Fitting. Demons usually blamed Him, so why would now be any different?

But He was also the only way Crowley might get an idea where the angel had gone. He knew where everyone was, right? He watched everything.

To contact Him, people usually used a church or chapel or some kind of old building. The demon shuddered. He couldn't just waltz into a church and pray. For starters, churches tended to expel demons. If not, they melted them. At least he could expect excruciating pain. Crowley had no illusions about repeating the stunt from a few weeks ago. That was probably Him humouring a demon and giving him a pre-set window of opportunity to talk to Aziraphale.

Crowley refused to feel thankful for that chance.

He also wouldn't just test his luck and go there once more.

No way.

"If you think I'm going in there, you're wrong!" he snarled, glaring more. "I know you can hear me here just fine if you choose to listen. And sometimes you do. A demon talking to you probably tickles your fancy, right? Well, I am talking! You better damn well listen! What was the fucking idea behind this all? Why did you have to kick him out? Was it funny? Did you have a laugh? Well, I sure hope so! Because it's over now. No one's laughing. You think it was a good idea? For you maybe! I don't shed a tear or pine after Hell, but Aziraphale? Fucking great plan! Ineffable, right? And you hired us for that retrieval! You knew what would happen, right? Divine plan! Fucking idiotic plan! You realized he would turn into this!"

By now Crowley's eyes were glowing with anger and his claws were out. He could even feel his fangs and whatever life was in the area had sought shelter.

"You were waiting for him to change! What is he? Your pet experiment? And I'm just collateral damage? Think again! I'm not going to suffer through this once more! I'm done with you. Always have been! It was never personal for me when you kicked me out all that time ago. Now it is! I want Aziraphale back! I want my angel back! He's no longer yours to play with! You released him! Accept it! Stop messing around with us! I'll find him! I know I will!"

Hissing softly, he stared at the church, glaring at it to answer.

Nothing happened.

No angelic voices, no smiting, no arch-angels after his hide.

"Egoist," Crowley just snarled and turned on his heels, stalking off.

He felt like striking out at something, hurting something, doing evil but it all came back to him hurting more.

"Excuse me?"

The voice stopped him and Crowley whirled around, eyes still demonic, claws and fangs prominent. He was looking at a man of the cloth, a middle-aged priest who met the demon's fury calmly.

"What?" Crowley hissed.

"I was asked to give this to you." The priest held out an envelope.

Crowley stared at him, suspicion rising. It was plain and brown and only had 'Anthony J. Crowley' written on it. "By whom?"

"I don't know. You are Anthony J. Crowley?"

"Yes."

"Then this is for you."

A smile accompanied the words and the priest held out the envelope again. Crowley took it gingerly and the man turned, walking off again. He disappeared inside the church.

Crowley opened the envelope and took out a single sheet of paper. It contained an address. Amsterdam.

Amsterdam!

Oh Zira... Crowley groaned to himself. You haven't...

He didn't know why he thought that this was his angel's current location, but somehow he did.

His eyes were on the church again. "Don't think I'll thank you," he snarled.

:I never would, appeared below the address. Crowley nearly dropped the paper out of shock. :But do not blame me for every wrong in the world, Crowley. I do not forget Mine and I listen when someone wants to open his heart to me. You do the same.:

Crowley swallowed and stared at the writing. No new words appeared.

He was watching. He was watching them.

"Peeping Tom," he just whispered and stuffed the letter into his pocket, then stalked off toward the nearest taxi stand. He had a plane to catch.

It wasn't hard for a demon with a mission to catch a first class flight from London Heathrow to Amsterdam Schiphol. It was a matter of having the right connections, so to speak, and being a deviously minded bastard. He had no heart for the business man who was by now hectically trying to find the ticket that was in Crowley's possession.

He spent the two hours flight time drinking himself into oblivion with hard liquor, sobering up, and wiping the stewardesses' minds about the strange young man with his request for more alcohol. He passed on the food but stole the cutlery. It was a tradition. The blanket went along just for the laughs.

With no bags and a mood that had hit rock bottom the moment he had landed, he flagged down a taxi.

Crowley didn't like Amsterdam. Like Las Vegas and some other cities all over the globe, Amsterdam was home to so much sin already, humanity didn't need more tempting there. He had been to Amsterdam once; he had been happy to leave. Nothing could stand against the perversion brought forth by humanity itself. No demon could ever come up with what he had seen there.

The city had lost nothing of its 'charm', Crowley thought as he stood in the crowds of people, looking around, taking it all in. Yes, Amsterdam was still a melting pot. And he still disliked it.

But the presence of his angel was strong. He could feel it like he always had when they had been in London together. It was a sensation that had developed throughout time, throughout their partnership, their friendship, the Arrangement. Lately, with them being lovers as well, it had strengthened. And after the incident with Jones it had been intense.

Crowley swallowed and started to walk.

Having Aziraphale so close every day, with no more pretence, he hadn't really paid all that much attention to the sensation of his lover close by. But now that he was gone, he felt it like an aching, empty hole. His angel had a place in his heart and in his soul, and his soul hurt.

Crowley smiled derisively. Demons shouldn't feel like this, but he couldn't imagine ever being like he had been before. Aziraphale completed him and he had always hoped the angel felt something like it in turn.

Lost in his search for his lover, he didn't really pay attention to where he went, just homed in on the signal. The weather was nice, there was a lot of hubbub on the streets, but he couldn't care less. Vendors and artists, performers and tourist, nothing touched him.  
Until he stopped in front of a very run-down and cheap hotel. The demon gazed at the faded letters above the door, the peeling paint, the bare plaster falling off the front. It was a sleazy establishment in the middle of the worst district. At night the prostitutes and pimps and drug addicts reigned. Throughout the day the dirt was visible on top of it. The stink never moved much.

"What are you doing here, angel? Trying to save souls?" he whispered.

Walking into the gloomy lobby he was glad he didn't need to breathe. It stank abominably of human excrements and stale beer, mixed with sweat. The carpet was ancient and worn so thin, the floor showed. The colour was anyone's guess. Reception was an old check-in desk made of wood that someone had tried to paint gold and red, but it looked cheap and was already peeling again. The wallpaper had yellowed and the loud posters did nothing to lighten up the depressive mood. Crowley found no one at reception and just followed his instinct.

Walking deeper into the gloom, he passed through a few specs of sunlight that slanted through the partly drawn blinds. Overstuffed, hand-me-down sofas cluttered the area behind reception, framed by three very patched-up armchairs. An old coffee table was stacked with such ancient, dog-eared magazines, they were probably collector's items.

There was an elevator, but it was so old and rickety, he didn't trust it. Crowley took the oak staircase.

Aziraphale's room was on the third floor. The hallways were painted lime green, or at least someone had thought it might be lime. The carpet was as indistinguishable as in the lobby. Obscene writing on the wall, with phone numbers and offers, completed the picture.  
Crowley stopped in front of the correct room and debated knocking. Aziraphale would probably already be aware of him. Why knock then?

Because it was the polite thing to do.

He sighed deeply. The angel had really rubbed off on him.

And he knocked.

The door was opened a minute later and Crowley was shocked when he caught a glimpse of the formerly so lively and warm face. Aziraphale's eyes were dull, the blue making way for something much greyer. He was pale, the cheeks hollow, with shadows under his eyes.

Sleepless? Insomnia?

Angels didn't need to sleep; Aziraphale only indulged. So why would he look like this? His clothes were clean, but they looked too large for his too thin frame.

Could angels lose weight!

And the aura. It felt sickly weak, so dull, like his whole expression.

Crowley's mouth felt dry, his heart was constricting painfully, and he whispered, "Aziraphale?"

"How did you find me?" the angel asked tonelessly.

"Can I come in?"

The blond figure didn't budge. "How did you find me, Crowley?" he repeated.

"He gave me your address."

That did it. The eyes flared a little and the figure wavered, so Crowley pushed inside. The room was as bad as the whole hotel, and he wondered when the sheets on what had to be the bed but looked like a cot had been truly washed the last time. The window visible behind the mostly drawn blinds was smeared, the walls yellowing, and there were stains on the floor. Lots of them. On the ceiling, too. The chair didn't match the rather scuffed table and the formica top was badly cracked or peeling. Everything in here was disgusting and tacky, and it looked more like a cell than a hotel room.

Aziraphale had closed the door, pale, thin, wide-eyed. "He...?"

"Yes, He."

"Uh, why?"

"Probably because I ranted enough to catch His attention!"

"You prayed!" the angel blurted.

Crowley winced. "No, of course not! I gave Him a piece of my mind."

"In a church!" Now there was a squeak in the no longer so level voice.

His hands twitched as if to reach out for Crowley, and the eyes raked over the demon to check for lingering effects.

"Angel, listen to yourself! I'm a demon! I'd melt entering a church! I was outside if you have to know."

Aziraphale gaped. "W-why? Why did you talk to Him?"

"Because I wanted to talk to you, you idiot. I needed to see you. I wanted to... I had to... I had to tell you... I'm sorry, Aziraphale." Demonic yellow eyes gazed at the dirty floor. "I'm sorry for what I said and did, and didn't say and didn't do."

That about encompassed the whole of it.

"What exactly are you sorry for?"

"I never meant to hurt you."

"You hurt yourself, Crowley. That was worse." The voice was back to being level, distant, polite and yet dismissive.

That hurt.

Crowley swallowed.

Blue eyes fixed on yellow ones, pinning him down. "You gave me the pep-talk and then turned and tore yourself apart. I killed a human being and while it might be negligent in your dictionary, it was the worst that ever happened to me."

Another dry swallow. "I know."

"Do you? Have you ever listened to me?"

"I did."

"But you never truly understood. You are a demon."

Crowley hunched his shoulders a bit. "Not any more."

It had been an epiphany. He had finally accepted the truth.

"And neither am I a true angel, but we feel as though we still are. I live by His Commandments and I killed, Crowley. I took a life. I did it to save you, but I also listened and fell to the rage inside me. An angel shouldn't do that. I'm not an angel of the Lord any more, but I feel like one. These," he raised his hands and let the claws appear, "appeared when the rage came, when my change was complete. They are the outward sign of my new condition. But inside, my soul is still the same."

Crowley bit his lower lip, feeling like whimpering with pain.

"And so are your wings, Crowley. I felt betrayed when I saw you tear yourself apart. You wanted me to cope with everything and you just turned on yourself."

"Zira"

The look silenced him and he felt like crawling into a corner with his tail between his legs.

"If you feel like an angel, does it matter that you look different?" Crowley finally whispered. "That you are different from the rest?"

Because he had always been different. What angel in his right mind would give a human his flaming sword! But Aziraphale had. Out of the goodness of his heart, his need to help, to be of help, to be... needed.

Aziraphale cocked his head. "You're not listening to me or you wouldn't ask me that question, my dear. Take your own advice. You feel like a demon, you tell me you are one, does it really matter that your wings have white stripes?"

They looked at one another and Crowley finally evaded those blue eyes once more. He felt ill-equipped to handle this, despite the fact that he had handled worse. None of their philosophical discussions in the past had ever been about emotions, his emotions, their relationship, their... love.

"What now?" he finally asked helplessly.

Aziraphale looked at him. "Why do you always expect me to have the answer?"

The demon clenched his hands into fists. He felt like apologizing for every single word he had ever said to his angel.

His angel.

Was Aziraphale even his angel any more?

Silence reigned. For a long time. Crowley shifted nervously from one foot to the next, then caught himself doing so and stopped.

"Come," Aziraphale suddenly said and left the hotel room.

Crowley followed him, mystified. They left the hotel, walked through the streets, until they finally arrived in a small park with an even smaller pond. But there were ducks.

It felt familiar.

It felt safe.

Aziraphale materialized a bag with bread crumbs and held it out to Crowley, who took a handful. The ducks' interest peaked a little. They started to swim lazily over to the two newcomers, but the moment Aziraphale tossed the first crumb, the fight for the food was one.

It was so terribly safe and familiar, yes. So normal. So much them. Feeding ducks, just standing there, together, watching the birds fight for the breadcrumbs.

"Will you come home with me?" Crowley finally broke the silence, his voice unnaturally hoarse.

He tossed the rest of his bread into the pond, hitting a duck over the head with it. The bird squawked and hacked at a rival for the bread.

"Have I ever told you about my dream?"

Crowley blinked. "Huh?"

Aziraphale, bundled up in those too large clothes, smiled faintly. It was so familiar, too. Crowley ached to have his angel back. He would do anything, even go to Hell and back, if it meant that Aziraphale forgave him.

"I don't remember the details, only the feeling. I think it was a dream about Him. I was there and so was He, and he said it was okay. That what I am, who I am, is okay." He looked at Crowley. "It's why I felt so much better. I could accept what I had become, the claws and all. It wasn't absolution for killing a human being, Crowley, but it was His way of helping, of answering my calls."

"You never mentioned it."

"I didn't really remember much until lately. I had so much time at my hands all of a sudden, so much time to think, and I remembered. When I came here, it felt like penance for my deeds. Punishment."

The demon stared at his angel. Punishment!

"I felt all the evil in this place, the lost souls, and I watched them. I watched the lost and the desperate, how they valiantly tried to survive in a world that was against them. I watched them live, love, sell themselves. I watched them shoot their bodies full of drugs and escape this hardship for a few moments. I watched them die."

"Zira..."

"And I understood. I understood that there are burdens we bear. I understood that there is fate and we all have to make the best of our lives. Humans are such short-lived creatures, but they live life to the fullest. They do what they have to to survive, they accept that their time is limited, and they are so strong. Stronger than we are."

A light halo surrounded the angel and Crowley shivered. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, gazing at the pond. He had no comeback for Aziraphale's words and he actually craved the radiance of his angel. He wanted this divine warmth, he wanted the prickles it sent down his spine, and each word, each sentence, increased the celestial aura.

"I understand now. I have to accept what He gave me. He gave me freedom and with it the change. He gave me my free will. He gave me something no other angel or demon has. He gave me a part of humanity. We are changing, Crowley. We were set free. I have to accept that I killed, and the consequences are not a Fall. The consequences are this feeling of humanity. I'm not a true angel any more. I have to cope with it."

"As do I," he whispered.

Aziraphale had been given a seed of humanity deep within his soul; he had killed and had to live with his pain. He had to cope. There was no other punishment than the one he thought fit for himself. And Crowley... he had changed the same way. He was no longer a demon. He had been given something divine. Part of him feared that with the divine, something human had been hidden inside him as well. Aziraphale had demonic traits, too. So they were now made up of all three Sides?

He shuddered and felt slightly sick.

Aziraphale threw the last bread crumbs at the ducks and turned to him. Crowley met the clear gaze, saw so much more colour return to the eyes and face than there had been before.

"Why did you come here?" the angel asked.

"I told you. I wanted to apologize."

"Rather un-demonic."

He shrugged. " A lot has been lately."

"Yes. Demons don't love. Demons don't apologize. Demons don't try to right the wrong."

Crowley gazed at the other. "I'm not a demon anymore then, hm?" He tried a smile. It was weak and failing.

"You are a demon. You're a fallen angel, my dear. And I'm an angel. We're just not who we thought we were. Six thousand years are hard to just forget."

Crowley nodded. "I never meant to make light of your changes, Zira. I just... I needed you to be... you... to be... there."

"Because your world was changing?"

He nodded. "I needed something steady in it. I chose you. I was wrong."

A hand touched his arm, fingers curled around it. "I'm honoured to be your anchor, Crowley. But I needed you, too. To see you betray my hopes and trust like that, it hurt."

Crowley wanted to take his angel into his arms so badly, wanted to hold him, kiss him, wipe all the bad things away. He just didn't know if he was still allowed to. Maybe these were their final parting moments.

Aziraphale's hands framed his face. "I'm not going away," he whispered.

Crowley froze. He hadn't spoken out loud, had he?

"I love you, my dear. I love you, the demon. I feel it so strongly, it hurt to be here, alone, knowing you wouldn't come in the evening or be there in the morning."

"I missed you," Crowley whispered, one hand carefully touching the covered chest. "I don't want to lose you because I messed up again. Please come home with me!"

So many un-demonic things in just a few sentences. Begging, pleading, loving... needing.

"Please..."

Aziraphale covered the hand on his chest. He looked into his yellow eyes. "You didn't mess it up again, my dear," he said softly.

"Yeah, well, it feels like it."

"You were afraid."

Crowley looked away.

"I still am," Aziraphale told him softly. "I've been an angel for all my life, Crowley. I was created by Him to be His servant. This was my destiny, my fate. I'm supposed to do His work. But I fell in love with you." His features softened. "I love you, Crowley, a demon. No angel has ever felt this before. No angel ever loved a demon."

"No demon ever loved an angel," Crowley murmured.

"No. No one ever felt what we do. No one ever was in our situation. We are the first. It scares me, Crowley. It scares me. The changes... our feelings... that He knows it and that He wants it. I wonder why, what His Plan is."

"Well, we know it's ineffable, right?" Crowley joked weakly.

"Yes, it is." Aziraphale carded a hand through the dark strands. "I've never been so scared of it, Crowley."

The demon detected faint shivers in the other immortal.

"I killed a human being with His consent. He was the one who wanted us to stop James Jones. He gave us His... absolution for taking a life."

"I wish it had been me, angel. I wish I had killed the guy."

"But it wasn't you. It was me. Everything has changed."

Crowley felt a flutter of fear. "Everything?" he echoed.

Blue eyes deepened. "We have changed."

Crowley nodded slowly. "We have. As... as beings. But what's between us... did it change, too?"

"My feelings for you haven't changed, dear." The angel smiled, the caress still the same. It was tender and caring, loving.. "Everything else is..."

"...in the wind?"

Another smile. "Yes. We are no longer who we were and I've to learn what I am now."

"Does that mean another trip to Tibet?" Crowley groaned.

He still remembered Aziraphale's stint in Tibet a century ago. Crowley had tagged along out of curiosity and had spent a miserable year with no successful temptations. Aziraphale on the other hand had been quite taken by the country and its people.

Aziraphale chuckled and it sounded free. "No. But how about Rome?"

"Rome!"

"I haven't been there in a very long time."

"There are a lot of places I can think of where you haven't been in a while, Zira! Why Rome?"

"Why not?"

And with that it was settled. Rome. Probably the bloody Vatican, too. Oh what fun  not! Crowley grimaced.

Aziraphale drew him close, their lips brushing gently. Crowley slid his arms carefully around his lover, his angel, testing the waters, and when he wasn't asked to stop it, he hugged him tightly.

"I don't want to lose you, angel," he whispered fervently. "Never."

"You aren't."

"Why did you leave England then?"

"I needed the distance."

"And you came here?"

A shrug. Aziraphale traced the lines of his face, then kissed him again. Crowley forgot his question and just let himself be kissed.

When they separated, the demon rested his forehead against his lover's, taking a shaky breath.

"Rome then?" he whispered.

"Rome," Aziraphale confirmed.

"Oh bloody well, why not..." he grumbled.

"The Eternal City," the angel added. "It's very romantic."

Crowley groaned.

"Sicily isn't far from there."

"Sicily?"

"Home of the Etna, origin of the mob, which means lots of evil" Aziraphale's eyes were sparkling.

"And how clichéd is that?" Crowley countered.

"Very, I believe. I just thought it would cheer you up."

He kissed his angel to shut him up. Aziraphale was just too happy to comply.

They spent the night in a very comfortable hotel that had clean rooms, a clean lobby, wonderful food and a very discreet service. Crowley shushed the angel as he protested all the way to the room that this was too expensive.

"If I had wanted expensive, I'd have taken you to The Grand Amsterdam Sofitel Demeure," Crowley whispered into one ear and kissed it.

Aziraphale shivered. "And this is less expensive?"

"A little."

"Oh Crowley."

The demon smiled brightly. "Up for dinner? You look terribly thin, Zira."

Aziraphale self-consciously hugged himself. Crowley still wasn't very sure how angels could lose weight, but Aziraphale had truly not been taking care of himself.

He pulled him close again, kissing his nose. "Dinner," he tempted gently. "You, me, a very tasty five-course meal"

Aziraphale smiled a little. "Very tempting," he replied.

"Yep. You taking it?"

"You asked so nicely."

Crowley's hands were running over his lover's body, soothing, not arousing, and he smiled happily at the light in his angel's eyes.

"Dinner?"

"Dinner," Aziraphale agreed.

The night wasn't filled with loud noises or soft moans, the sounds of love-making or hot sex. It was a night of lying together, of Crowley savouring the embrace of his angel. He nuzzled the soft throat, kissing him gently, not trying to arouse. Aziraphale's fingers carded through his hair, stroked and calmed him more than any words could. His presence alone was healing the holes in Crowley's soul.

"I missed you," he murmured.

Aziraphale played with a black strand. "I missed you, too, Crowley. I didn't know it would be so bad. I couldn't sleep."

"You never slept before."

A soft chuckle. "You spoiled me."

"I did?"

"Yes. Very much. Very badly."

Crowley sought his nearness, and Aziraphale pulled him very close. He closed his eyes and Crowley felt his body relax even more.

"My angel," the demon whispered softly and it meant more than just three little words.

It got him a sleepy smile and a murmur in return. Then Aziraphale slipped into the first sleep in weeks.

Crowley didn't sleep that night. He was wide awake, watching the angel in his arms as Aziraphale got the rest he so badly needed. Now and then he would touch a lock of hair, a patch of skin, reassuring himself that this was real and not a dream.

He should thank Him.

He didn't.

There was a limit to the divine in him, which was so miniscule, it didn't really count.

He had divine and celestial in his arms, asleep, relaxed, his. His angel.

Crowley smiled.

For the first time he felt complete again.

He was glad to leave Amsterdam behind, and the moment the plane took off, Crowley sighed a sigh of relief.

"Really," Aziraphale muttered. "It's not as bad as you always make it."

Crowley frowned at the blond. "Not as bad? Have you ever tried to tempt someone in that city? Impossible, I tell you. I could learn from them. Hell could, too."

Aziraphale smiled. "Angels don't tempt, my dear."

Crowley huffed. "So you guided someone back to the right path then?"

"Actually, no."

"See?" He smiled gleefully.

Aziraphale just gave him that mild expression of 'I don't know what you have, Crowley, but it was a nice day for me'. It deflated him a little and the demon sank into the comfortable first class chair.

This time he didn't get senselessly drunk. He wined and dined, of course, and he enjoyed the company. His whole soul seemed to revive with Aziraphale's presence nearby and while part of him wanted to analyze this feeling, wanted to scare him with its intensity, another just told the first one to shut the bloody heck up.

The flight was longer than the previous one and Crowley used that time to just bathe in Aziraphale's aura, dozing off mid-flight with his head resting against one angelic shoulder. It felt so good. It felt so terribly, frightfully good.

He still nabbed the cutlery for good measure.

Rome was everything and nothing at all as he had expected it. Crowley had tried not to be in the Eternal City in the last few centuries. Back in the good old days, when Emperors had ruled the city, when Rome had been a world empire, when there had been real fun to be had in the Coliseum and the Circus Maximus, he had been here.

Yeah, good old times.

Too bad Rome hadn't lasted just a bit longer. Crowley had really just gotten the hang of mass temptation. Then the whole affair had gone down the drain. Too bad, really. Just too bad.

Today it was boring most of the time and he had never fancied himself a suicidal demon. While Rome was home to a lot of, well, Roman stuff, it also had its fair share of holy things. Here, it was almost impossible not to get a headache over some patron saint staring down at you from a wall in a café. Many Romans owned real religious items, even if they were small, and the combined power resulted in demonic headaches.

No, he didn't like Rome. Too holy.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was truly radiating by the third day they were here. They were doing the touristy stuff, the sight-seeing of ancient ruins, and that was fine with Crowley. He could do ruins. Listening to his angel go on about how Rome had been at the very height of the Empire, Crowley smiled to himself. He drew the line at churches, left his angel to walk around in there on his own, while he soaked up the hellishly hot sun. No street vendor tried to sell him anything. For some reason their eyes slid off the man in black and they ignored him.

His angel was getting back to his old self, Crowley decided. The clothes looked much better on him, the hollowness was gone, the aura strong and healthy. Rome was doing Aziraphale good, and a healthy Aziraphale was doing Crowley a whole lot of good. So he could ignore the achy joints in the evening when they collapsed in their bed, curled up together, Aziraphale sleeping the sleep of the just. Crowley just watched him, willed his body to heal the damage done by the celestial radiation, and he was up and about the very next morning.

Sitting in a café, ignoring the by now miniature migraine from the medium-sized statue of the Holy Mother shooting mildly dark looks at the demon drinking his Latte, Crowley looked at his angel with a faint smile. Aziraphale was smiling, open and warm and happy. He was watching the people around the fountain, the children and mothers and young couples, and his eyes were alive with sparkles and all. He was unconsciously radiating, making people in his vicinity feel good, and it was probably that aura that kept Crowley from breaking down in pain over the double impact of the Holy Mother and a patron saint carving.

I'm masochistic, he thought darkly as he sipped at the Latte. Sitting in some street café where there's lethal bombardment from two sides because of those crappy religious items.

It had been stupid of him to come to Rome anyway. But he had wanted to be with his angel, to make up for everything, to see him come back to life, to smile, to be with Aziraphale.

It would have been all well and good if there hadn't been this old woman. She was dressed all in black, the white hair under a shawl, and she had a basket full of icons. Saints and angels and crosses. They weren't old, but they had been made by a religiously very much inclined old woman who had put her belief in them.

The moment she stepped up to the table, Crowley froze. The mild migraine was now a fully blown one and when she placed a wooden icon onto their table to show them her work, it was like someone had driven a glowing hot nail right between his eyes.  
Crowley gasped in pain, curling both arms around his middle, and he hissed.

Dear G... hng!

It burned. It was flaying him alive and it was strong. Weakened by the constant bombardment of the last few days, he was broadsided.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale exclaimed.

Something inside of him rose. Fine tendrils of divinity. He had felt it before, in their fight against Jones. It had saved him from getting burned alive by the holy wrath of his angel. Now it woke again, a fine spidery web of divinity that coursed through him and kept his body from starting to blister or something.

The woman's eyes narrowed and she said something in Italian. Crowley had no trouble hearing her, understanding her.

"Demon."

He hissed again, trying to get to his feet. His body was no longer under his control and shields crumbled like brittle paper under a gust of wind. Snake eyes were on the innocent little icon. Innocent but very, very potent. At least for a demon who had been battered for three days and was on his last leg of resistance.

And then Aziraphale's hand was on his, the aura expanding, enveloping him. No one saw anything; no one but the old woman. Her dark eyes were now on Aziraphale, who was trying to calm down Crowley. Crowley clung to the hand that had grabbed his, a pathetic whimper escaping his lips. The angel took the wooden icon and handed it back to the old woman with a smile.

"Thank you for your offer, but we are not buying."

"He is a demon," she stated.

"Yes."

"But you are not."

The smile stayed, mild and tolerant. "No."

"You are one of His servants?"

Aziraphale regarded her with faint interest. "You can see us?"

"I can see what he is," she said disdainfully.

"We are all God's children."

Her narrow eyes scrutinized Crowley. "You affiliate with him?"

Crowley felt his claws rise and the ones of his left hand ripped into the shirt. The others were on the verge of breaking his angel's  
skin. The pain was abysmal, despite the fact that the icon was no longer so openly in front of him.

"We are together," Aziraphale just answered the woman.

Her eyes narrowed again, finally she looked around, at the people who didn't see any of it, and her eyes crinkled in a little smile.

"He works in mysterious ways, si?"

Aziraphale inclined his head. She left without another word.

Crowley hissed softly once more, his head killing him, his stomach doing flip-flops, and his whole body felt bad. He had no other word for it.

"Come," Aziraphale whispered and pulled him up.

He stumbled and the angel's arm came around his waist. Crowley closed his eyes, feeling as close to vomiting as he had ever been before. Demons didn't throw up as a rule; right now he was all for breaking that one.

Finally the angel stopped and made him sit down. It was in the shade of a tree and they were alone, people giving the tree and the two men a wide berth. Aziraphale was miracling big time at the moment.

"Better?" the angel asked softly, stroking over the jet-black strands of hair.

Crowley fought back the nausea, concentrated on healing the damage done, and he felt a little bit of angelic healing helping him.

"Shit," he finally whispered.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Aziraphale asked.

He grimaced. "You were having so much fun..."

"I appreciate that you came here with me, that you spent your time doing these tours." Aziraphale continued caressing him. "I didn't realize that there were so many religious objects hurting you, Crowley. I apologize."

The demon straightened and took the hand stroking over him. "No, angel, no. It's okay." He desperately wanted to erase this little episode from his lover's mind.

"You hurting yourself because of me doesn't do any good, Crowley. I thought you understood that now. I know who you are. I know you tolerate the divine a lot better than any other demon in this world. I know you did this for my sake." Aziraphale's expression was wondrous, loving, amazed, and slightly worried to a degree. "But to destroy your shields just like this..."

Crowley snarled. "It wasn't just like that, angel. I'm not weak!"

"I never said so."

The calmness in the angel's voice took the wind right out of his sail and Crowley slumped back against the tree. He could see the Palatinum from here.

He sighed angrily and rubbed his forehead.

"That stupid old hag," he muttered.

"She has a firm belief in Him. It is reflected in her work. She also sees us as who we are."

Crowley muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath. He was feeling a whole lot better by now and it did good to be free of the abominable headache. Blessed icons!

"Better?" Aziraphale inquired gently.

He grunted an affirmative.

"Want to go somewhere more peaceful?"

"And where would that be?" Crowley asked suspiciously.

"Have you ever been to the Villa d'Este?"

"Not since 1555."

Aziraphale smiled and rose, holding out a hand. Crowley took it and was easily pulled to his feet. Aziraphale kissed him chastely.

"How about it?"

And they went.

It was a wonderful day.

They were sitting side by side, on the grass, gazing into the clear night sky. It was warm and both were wearing a t-shirt in Crowley's case and a light shirt in Aziraphale's. There was the soft gurgle of a fountain near-by. Actually, there were a whole lot of them, but they disappeared in the darkness, with only a few lights indicating civilization anyway. Their hands were touching, fingers stroking against each other.

"I haven't done this for a while," Aziraphale murmured.

"What? Counting the stars?"

"Crowley, dear, we don't need to count. We know how many there are."

The demon flashed him a smile. "But it's fun to check if they're still all there."

"Oh Crowley," he chuckled, amusement in his voice.

It felt good to smile, to laugh, to be with his lover again. He had missed him dearly in the weeks they had been apart over this stupid matter, over this insecurity. Aziraphale studied the sharp features, the high cheekbones, the uncovered, yellow eyes. He saw the lines, too. Lines the young face shouldn't have, but Crowley had them. Worry lines, lines of exhaustion, of pain and so much more. The constant bombardment with divine power hadn't helped and Aziraphale knew for a fact that while he, the angel, slept at night, his lover was staying awake. It was as if the demon was afraid he'd wake up and everything had been a dream.

He was slowly but surely convincing Crowley that this wasn't a dream, that he wouldn't just leave him. Aziraphale leaned his head against one dark-clad shoulder and Crowley put an arm around him, pulling him close. The day had been nice; really, really nice. And it had opened his eyes to how desperate Crowley was to make amends, to make this work. Why else had he suffered three days of headaches, hiding it so well? Aziraphale had been so caught up in being in Rome again, he hadn't really seen it.

"I took you for granted, angel."

Aziraphale tilted his head to look at him. Surprise flitted over his features at the sudden seriousness of his partner. They hadn't talked about it all since that day in Amsterdam.

"You did?"

"Yeah." The usually smooth voice was rough with emotions. "There's so much I want to apologize for."

"You don't have to any more, my dear," the angel absolved him.

Crowley shook his head. "No, Zira, no. Don't say that. I never realized... that whenever I have a problem I come to you. You help me, even if it's just by listening to me. But you where do you turn when you want to talk?"

Yellow eyes looked at him, so open and vulnerable, and the demon's shields were still kind of wavering. Crowley was easy prey at the moment and Aziraphale felt a surge of protectiveness.

"I never thought about it," he finally confessed. "I did talk to you about certain issues."

Crowley snorted. "Uh-huh. I was a literal ass the last months. Self-absorbed in my own misery and wallowing and pain."

"It was quite a change in your life."

"For me it's just a few feathers, Zira. For you... it was worse."

Aziraphale looked into the sky again and smiled. "I don't think it was worse for either side. It was bad for both of us, Crowley. A few feathers meant a lot to you."

Crowley sighed.

The angel felt warm and content leaning against his lover and when he slid to lay his head onto the jeans-clad lap, Crowley didn't stop him. Fingers ran through his hair, carded and stroked and petted, and Aziraphale found it a nice sensation. Very calming.

"I understand your fears," he only said.

"Yes, you always do. I didn't want to understand yours."

"Demons aren't made to relate to such problems."

"I was an angel once."

"You're a demon now."

Crowley gazed at the pale features and played with a lock of hair. "I'm a demon, yes, but I'm no longer one hundred percent of the bastard of before," he finally said quietly.

Aziraphale smiled a little. "You're a little bit more angel, I'm a little bit more bastard."

Crowley knew that. Well, at least he had always known that Aziraphale could be a bastard. His angel had shown that streak more than once. Be it with customers whom he didn't sell books to and was downright rude with, to the numerous times throughout history where he had done some rather un-angelic things, like supporting rebel groups and agreeing to the use of force to get a point across. No, Aziraphale wasn't the angel a church would see in him. Religions usually had demons and angels down very, very wrong.

"So what does that make us now?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale reached up and pulled him down into a kiss. "Complete," he whispered.

Crowley stared at him, eyes wide, and a mixture of different emotions ran over his face, most of them related to embarrassment.

They were the only ones of their kind, so to speak. No other demon or angel even came close, and humans were a completely different Side again. It was just the two of them and Aziraphale had no intention of losing the only person he had grown so much accustomed to over the millennia. He felt comfortable with Crowley, felt safe, and he trusted him absolutely.

"Complete," Crowley echoed, sounding mystified. His fingers threaded into the dark blond strands and the angel felt like purring. It felt so good.

Aziraphale just met the turbulent gaze, exuding warmth and trust, and finally he felt Crowley's aura mirror it. They could see this through; they would survive this intact.

They remained here for a long, long time. Throughout the night and watching the sunrise, then they finally left.

"Are you sure?"

Crowley nodded at the quizzical frown from the angel and gave him a smile. "Yes, I am. And this is the most perfect little place, don't you think?"

"But... it could happen again."

"It won't. I'll let you haunt the whole of religiously contaminated Rome, and we go to the ruins and whatnot together."

"Won't you be bored?"

Crowley spread his arms and turned 360 degrees, encompassing the small roof terrace with its mix of plant life. "This is perfect, Zira. I'll read or watch TV. I'll be fine. I can even shop and cook."

The angel still looked dubious.

"What? You don't believe I can cook?" Crowley gave him a mock affronted look.

"You can?" Aziraphale chuckled.

"Yes, I'll have you know that I can!" Crowley stepped up to him and pulled the reluctant immortal into his arms. "Zira, it's fine here, really. You like Rome. You want to go to all the places you haven't been for so long. You want to hang out in museums and look at paintings. That's good. You need it. And I'll be with you when we go out to all the ruins and old cities."

Aziraphale exhaled slowly, still not convinced.

"Zira... c'mon..."

"Okay."

Crowley beamed at him. "Great!"

So now they would rent this three-room apartment, with a kitchen and a bathroom, a roof balcony, and a rate that was pricey but fine. It had been Crowley's idea, actually. He had suggested they stay a bit longer, rent a place, to have their own, to take their time. Aziraphale had been rather dubious about it. Crowley's brush with imminent meltdown had scared him.

Okay, so the demon hadn't been in danger of truly melting, but he had been in agony over so much holiness, and Aziraphale didn't want to expose him more. Now they had a place of their own, they were set to stay for a few months, and part of him was tickled that he could visit all the places not in any of the official tourist booklets.

"Why are you doing this, Crowley?" he asked softly, stroking a hand over the black shirt of his lover, removing invisible dust.

"Huh?"

Aziraphale just looked at him and Crowley sighed.

"You really want to hear it?"

"Yes."

"Ngh! Angel!"

"Crowley?"

"Okay, so I feel guilty, okay? I feel guilty and it makes me sick! I did this to you. I made you leave and it hurt me. It's my fault. Gah!" He looked away, visibly disgusted at the confession. "I don't want to be alone, Zira," he finally added with a much softer voice. "Even though we had our differences in the past, you made me feel welcome whenever I dropped by. I... I'm alone. I'm a demon. Demons never travel in packs and we don't watch each other's backs or shit like that. We're alone. But you... you gave me company. You suffered me even when I was really getting on your nerves, making your existence harder than it should be. I can be with you, talk to you, whenever I need You don't pretend to like me... love me... you do. I just feel warm...like I belong."

Crowley's face was hot with embarrassment at the words that hadn't stopped. Dear G...nnn... What was wrong with him?

Aziraphale smiled and turned his face to make the demon look at him. "I feel the same, my dear. I feel as though I belong to you. All of this isn't your fault. We were both under a lot of stress. It gets to you, even as a celestial being."

"Not celestial," the demon snarled defiantly.

"Or a demonic one," Aziraphale conceded. "We reacted... and it had consequences. We behaved like humans."

Crowley flinched. "Don't say that!"

"But it's true. You and I, we have changed. Our reactions have become more human. My disappointment, your guilt, your anger, our fear, my need..." Aziraphale took his hand and interlaced their fingers. "We are who we are, dear. I love you. I still do and always will. And I will live with what I have done. This wasn't your fault, love. Never."

He pulled him close and felt Crowley exhale softly against his neck.

"You think they'll find some kind of replacement for us?" Crowley murmured.

Aziraphale stroked over the midnight black hair. "I don't know. Maybe one day we'll find out."

Crowley snorted softly, then placed a kiss against Aziraphale's neck.

"But until then, I say we do what needs to be done. Starting with healing ourselves."

Crowley couldn't argue with that. For the next months it was Rome. Maybe another city or country after that. He didn't know. Right now, he would go wherever Aziraphale wanted.

They had met over a glass of wine in a small Italian restaurant. There were no other patrons, no waiters, no cooks. It was just them and a traditional style table. Bread, olives and wine were spread on it.

"Amazing," one murmured, smiling o himself. He was wearing shorts, a t-shirt proclaiming he had been there, done it and bought the hideous t-shirt, and sandals.

The other had opted for the less touristy style, his clothes stylish and reflecting expensive taste. Sunglasses hid amused eyes.

"Yes, amazing. Quite resilient."

An expression of pride filled the first one's smile. "I knew they would appreciate the changes."

"I'd hardly call that 'appreciating'. He was tearing out his feathers. Very demonic, I have to say."

"But he has overcome that obstacle. That is divine."

"But your boy would make a good demon, I have to say. Taking out that human. Bravo. Ten points." That remark was accompanied by a smirk. "If you let him Fall, I promise to catch him gently."

"It's too late for that. I doubt you'd have very much fun with a Fallen that carries a seed of humanity in himself."

He shuddered. "Humans are more trouble than they are really worth. Still, he would be a very powerful demon."

"With a conscience."

"And we see where that leads. Crawly was never perfect demon material, but you take what you get."

"Tell me about it."

"You created them."

"I had my bad days."

Wine was sipped.

"So, now that we have them where we wanted them... what do we do?"

"Watch," He said with a fine smile.

"And?"

"Have another glass of wine."

The man with the shades sighed. "I meant what do you want to use them for?"

There was a thoughtful silence. "We'll see. Another situation will arise."

"You plan on getting the Creation key stolen again?"

"Of course not!"

He emptied his wine. "I thought as much."

The olives disappeared one by one and the bread was chewed on in companionable silence.

"So, how are things these days?" He asked.

"A bit of a riot because of recent events, but nothing major."

"Understandable. How is Beelzebub?"

"Oh, he's complaining about getting grey hair over the whole affair. The poor boy hasn't had so much to take care of ever since That Day." The smirk widened. "He thinks about taking a holiday and letting one of his assistants take over the job. Everyone is currently trying not to be the one in question."

"Ah, yes, the rigors of being the second-in-command. Michael knows all about it. Maybe those two should have a chat."  
Coal black eyebrows rose from behind stylish sunglasses. "You want another incident?"

"That depends. Are we talking about the one that takes six thousand years to bear fruits or the one where we have a rather pissed off demon and a smiting angel?"

"The latter."

"Ah. That one."

"Yes, that one. You know how long it takes to patch egos back together."

He smiled. "Yes. I think our two boys are rather unique. A few squabbles and then they found an agreeable base to work from."

They chatted amiably for a while longer, then both rose and the table disappeared, the Italian restaurant melting into nothingness. After a little good-bye, both went their own ways and the nothingness was silent.

A plane touched down in London Heathrow and a demon and an angel got out of the terminal building. It was raining and the demon turned his face toward the sky, the sunglasses spattered with drops. He smiled a little. The angel stood by his side, watching the other with a fond expression.

"Home sweet home?" Aziraphale asked with a soft smile.

"Home wet home. And yes, it's sweet, too. Didn't know I'd miss this."

Aziraphale wrapped an arm around his demon's waist and pulled him close as they walked away, ignored and unseen by many.

It was good to be home.

It was good to be complete.


End file.
